Page 64 of Reaper's Ruin
A pull. Irresistible. Like fate itself drawing us together.
I could feel the tremor in her hand where it curled in mine.
She smiled, small and unsure, and something inside me cracked.
The world fell away.
The crowd, the danger, the mission, the masquerade—none of it mattered. Just her. Just this moment. The two of us suspended in something too big to name.
Her hand tightened in mine.
My breath hitched.
I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
Because if I leaned in even one inch...
I wouldn’t be able to stop.
I’d kiss her.
And if I kissed her—
My lips drew toward hers. I couldn’t stop them. Didn’t want to. I was about to make the biggest mistake of my afterlife.
But then—
A scream tore through the ballroom.
Instinct took over. I pulled Soraya against me, shielding her body with mine as I scanned for threats. The music had stopped, the dancers frozen in confusion. Another cry rang out, this one more desperate.
“A healer! Weneed a healer!”
A crowd was gathering near the refreshment tables. Through gaps between bodies, I could see a man on the floor, his face contorted in pain, hands clutching at his chest.
“Poison!” someone shouted. “The assassin has struck again!”
Panic rippled through the crowd. Guards moved toward the commotion, hands on weapons, electricity crackling through their palms prepared to strike.
“The healer was called away,” another voice cried. “To attend Lord Erran’s wife!”
“Somebody help him!” a woman screamed.
Before I could tighten my grip on her, Soraya broke free from my arms, pushing through the crowd toward the fallen man.
“Soraya!” I hissed, rushing after her. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer, just kept moving forward with determination. By the time I reached her, she had already dropped to her knees beside the victim—a young noble in elaborate silver-trimmed garments, his mask discarded as he gasped for air, clutching his chest.
“Let me see,” she said with an authority that surprised me.
Without hesitation, she began unbuttoning the man’s jacket, pushing it aside to examine his chest. A massive purple bruise spread across his left side, visible even in the dim light.
“What happened to him? This bruise? What is it from?” she demanded of the panicked onlookers.
“He was kicked by a Stormsteed during practice this morning,” a woman replied, tears streaming down her face. “Said he was fine—”
“It’s a pneumothorax, not poison,” Soraya said firmly. “His lung has collapsed. I need to relieve the pressure. Now.”
